Hallow's End
Our skeletal warhorses straightened in a disciplined row, adorned in the same esteemed colors as their riders—the colors of their Queen. Hoof to cloven hoof, we set aside ordinary duties for a brief respite to make a presence during my comrade’s time of honor. For this was also our duty as loyal subjects. This was a time when my comrades were proud to be Forsaken, and I was proud to serve them just as I had served their Queen a lifetime ago. Last year, I had stood on the mossy platform of Undercity’s courtyard with my comrades we marveled at the devious spectacle that was Hallow’s End. Two weeks were occupied with festivities in celebration of the Forsaken’s independence and consequent dominance over their adversaries. Carved pumpkins generously decorated the streets. Colorful confectioneries filled buckets of offering to the brim. Candles specially dipped and exclusive to the holiday lined the walkways, and towering like a beacon over the courtyard itself was a fiery wickerman. Before the official ceremonial burning commenced, all races and occupations of the Horde who gathered were greeted—no, graced—by the Forsaken’s Queen. We bent our knees in silent awe at the sight of her haunting beauty. Trailed down the elevated steps by royal dreadmages in indigo robes, Sylvanas Windrunner bellowed her layered, ghastly voice an announcement notably revised than that of previous years. It was all the more fitting and reflective of her people’s current state—one of imposing defiance and willpower: ''Children of the Grave, heed my call! '' In life, we suffered unspeakable tragedies. We’ve watched, as our homes were razed to the ground! We cried out in agony, as our families were cut down before our eyes. Finally, in the face of such atrocities, we were denied even the release of death! Now, we burn this Wickerman as a symbol of our victory against old enemies. We paint our faces with the ash, to send a message to new enemies. A declaration, to those who fear and revile us as monsters! To those who would question our place in this world: We are not monsters! We are not the mindless wretches of a ghoul army! NO! We are a force even more terrifying! We are the chill in a coward’s spine! We are the instruments of an unyielding ire! WE ARE THE FORSAKEN! My fellow soldiers and I rekindled the wickerman’s bulk with torches and its flames would persist through the crisp nights. We dipped our fingers in the piles of ash collecting at its feet and painted our faces in soot-black memory of strength earned through suffering. Despite this dour reminiscence, we were proud to simply be. This year, I’d celebrate Hallow’s End alone. I had half a mind to dismiss it altogether and isolate myself in the eternal façade of Eversong. My comrades—their will to exist and revel in freedom were not so strong, after all. I’ve learned that if demigods such as ancients, titans, and Old Ones must die—then by what right should those I love be any more exempt? My love has no power. It cannot shield that which was destined to die. No one’s can. Category:Stories